Everett led Walda into the living-room of the inn and shut the door. Taking the red cloak from her shoulders, he tenderly placed her in one of the big rocking-chairs.

“From this moment you are always to be in my care,” he said. “Ah, Walda, I cannot realize that at last you are to be mine—all mine.”

She looked up at him with tears in her eyes.

“Stephen, it is strange, but now that I am about to go out into the great world with thee I am full of misgivings,” she replied.

He knelt beside her, and, taking her hand, said:

“You have had a tragic day. You are exhausted. Surely, you are not afraid to trust yourself to me?”

“Nay, nay. When thou art close to me I feel safe from all trouble; yet my heart trembles. Thy love hath a power that affrights me.”

He had risen and kissed her, drawing her head upon his breast and holding it there. She hid her face with a sudden shame while she asked:

“Are we to be married to-morrow, Stephen?”

“It was the agreement that we should leave Zanah at midnight. We shall drive to a town twenty-five miles away, and there, at sunrise, you and I will attend our own wedding.”

“Thou art sure that my father would have had it so?”

“Yes, Walda; I would have gained his consent. You are to forget all the troubles that my love has brought to you. I shall try to atone for every heartache of these last few days.”

“Our love was sent from heaven. Truly thou believest that?”

“Fate has given you to me. You must not ask any more questions. We are to begin to be happy now.” He stroked her cheek and soothed her as if she were a child, and his great strength gave her confidence. “The first thing that I shall do will be to send for your white gown, so that you can take off this mourning,” he said, lightly, when he saw that she was more composed. “I bought from the elders the white gown and the red cloak, for both have a significance for us—both have marked great days in our lives.”

She smiled faintly, and he began to unpin the black cap that she wore. It was securely fastened to her fair hair. He had to ask her assistance in getting rid of it. When it was loosened he threw it on the floor, and then walked off to look at her. She was very pale, after the sorrow and excitement of the day. Her black gown accentuated the fairness of her skin, and her clear-cut features were brought out in relief against the dark back of the chair.

“You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen,” he said, with the fervor of sincerity. “How often you will hear your praises sung when you belong to the world.”

“Art thou teaching me vanity so soon, Stephen?” she exclaimed, with a sigh, for she was in no mood for gayety.

“I am half afraid to take you into the world,” he answered, with some seriousness. “You see, I have my misgivings. But you did not tell me what disturbed you. Come over here to Mother Werther’s sofa, where you can whisper to me all the vague fears of your heart.”

“Thou knowest I shall need thy charity oftentimes,” Walda said, after Stephen had made her rest her head upon his shoulder. “I shall not understand many of thy ways—even thy thoughts will be too deep for me to understand.”

Everett laughed.

“You forget that you have wisdom and goodness that I can never fathom.”

“Here in Zanah those who love soon weary of each other. Surely, it is not so in the world, where earthly love is not counted a sin. Is it?” she questioned.

“Our love is for all our life,” he said, softly. “I shall be faithful to it always.”

“And thou wilt be patient with me? Thou wilt teach me all that I should learn, if I would be thy worthy companion?”

“I would not have you changed in any way, Walda.”

“Ah! but love bringeth wisdom, and I have thought much about our marriage. I shall be unlike all the people thou knowest. When Gerson Brandt said he would be out of place in the great world, his words smote me.”

“You shall learn all that you need to know about the ways of the world,” Everett promised, easily. “Is there any other subject that is causing you apprehension?”

“Nay; none that I may voice to thee. When a woman is about to give herself to the man she loveth there is a tumult in her heart. It is of mingled faith and fear. Love carrieth both with it, for, while it exalts the soul, it bringeth the wisdom that hath a far sight of the meanings and mysteries of life.”

Walda put her hands upon his shoulders, and, looking into his eyes, saw in them something that gave her courage.

“Let us be grateful in this hour of our deliverance,” she said, rising. “Have the white gown—my wedding-gown—brought to me.”

Everett went up to the room he had occupied during his last sojourn in Zanah, leaving Walda alone while he made his preparations for the journey.

Walda, leaning on the window-sill, looked out upon the quiet village that had been so long her home. One by one the lights in the stone houses on the winding street went out. The footsteps of chance passers-by became less frequent. The noises in the inn were hushed. At last every door was closed against her.

When the tall clock struck eleven, Everett entered the room. The solitary candle had burned out, and Walda was sitting in the darkness.

“Can you see to find your cloak?” he asked. “It is time for us to start.”

Walda caught up the wrap from its place on the sofa, and followed Everett out on the porch of the gasthaus. There was not a sign of life anywhere.

“The carriage will be waiting for us on the other side of the square beneath the old oak-tree,” said Everett. “Don’t you want to say good-bye to Piepmatz, or would you like to take him with you?”

“Nay, Stephen; Piepmatz is like the others that dwell in Zanah. He would not feel at home in the great world,” Walda answered, going to the cage where the chaffinch, with his head beneath his wing, slumbered in happy unconsciousness of the influence of love-songs.

On the bridge appeared a lantern. It came towards the inn, and when it was a few feet away the form of the bearer, Gerson Brandt, was discerned. By his side walked Hans Peter.

“I was afraid I should not have the chance to say good-bye to thee, Gerson Brandt,” Walda exclaimed, going down the steps to meet him. Everett drew the simple one away, with the excuse that they would go to see whether the carriage had come.

“Nay, at any cost, I meant to send thee out into the world with my blessing,” Gerson Brandt answered. He set down his lantern and put his hands behind him lest he should be tempted to touch her.

“It seemeth selfish of me to be so happy when thou art sad, Gerson Brandt.” Walda put her hand upon his arm, and they looked into each other’s faces with something of the old frankness in their glance.

“In this hour of parting it is good to know that thou leavest Zanah with a light heart.” Gerson Brandt spoke bravely, but his lips quivered. “Farewell, Walda. If I never behold thy face again, remember thine image is ever treasured in the memory of a man of Zanah. To him thou wilt never grow old. Here in my thoughts thou shalt dwell always in thy youth and beauty.”

He trusted himself to let one hand reach out above her head.

“Peace go with thee. The Lord bless and keep thee,” he said, softly, lifting his face to heaven, because he could no longer depend upon his human strength.

They stood silent for a moment.

Everett and Hans Peter returned to the inn to say that the carriage was waiting.

“Thou shalt have Piepmatz, if thou art willing to be burdened with the care of the chaffinch,” said Walda, speaking to the simple one.

“Nay, give him to both of us,” pleaded Gerson Brandt so earnestly that she bestowed the bird upon him and Hans Peter, with the injunction that they must not disagree over the partnership.

Everett put the scarlet cloak upon Walda’s shoulders and led her away. She went without waiting to say a last word to the man of Zanah, who had lifted his lantern and held it so that it might give her light. Gerson Brandt would have gone on ahead illuminating the way, but a sudden weakness overcame him when he saw that Walda had forgotten his presence in the excitement of her departure. He sank upon the well-curb, at the very place where Everett had first seen him and Walda speak to each other. He listened for the wheels of the carriage. He heard the horses start and then stop suddenly. Hans Peter had run out of the inn carrying on his shoulders the illuminated Bible which had become, by right of purchase, the property of the stranger.

Gerson Brandt quelled in his heart the rebellion he felt because to him was denied even the privilege of giving to Walda the Sacred Book into which he had wrought so many of his best thoughts and most precious hopes. He buried his head in his hands, waiting patiently until he should know that the woman he loved had gone forever beyond his reach.

The horses’ hoofs struck the soft road with a muffled sound. The wheels started a second time. Gerson Brandt closed his ears for a moment, and then, rising, listened for the last sound of the carriage. He was still standing in the deserted square when Hans Peter spoke to him.

“It is almost the beginning of a new hour,” the fool said.

Gerson Brandt examined his big, silver watch by the light of the lantern.

“Midnight!” he called, in a voice out of which all hope had gone. “Midnight!—”

“And all is well!” cried the simple one, taking up the words that Gerson Brandt had not power to speak.